MEDEA.  I cannot.

CREUSA.  ’Tis not hard, if thou’lt but try.

MEDEA.  I have tried, patiently; but ’tis no use!

[She lays the lyre aside and rises.]

Were it a spear-haft, or the weapons fierce
Of the bloody hunt, these hands were quick enough.

[She raises her right hand and gazes at it reproachfully.]

Rebellious fingers!  I would punish them!

CREUSA.  Perverse one!  When my heart was filled with joy
             At thinking how ’twould gladden Jason’s heart
             To hear this song from thee!

MEDEA.  Ay, thou art right. 
             I had forgot that.  Let me try once more. 
             The song will please him, think’st thou, truly
             please him?

CREUSA.  Nay, never doubt it.  ’Tis the song he sang
             When he dwelt here with us in boyhood days. 
             Each time I heard it, joyfully I sprang
             To greet him, for it meant he was come home.

MEDEA (eagerly).

Teach me the song again!

CREUSA.  Come, listen, then. 
             ’Tis but a short one, nor so passing sweet;
             But then—­he knew to sing it with such grace,
             Such joy, such lordly pride—­ay, almost scorn!

[She sings.]

“Ye gods above, ye mighty gods,
Anoint my head, I pray;
Make strong my heart to bear my part
Right kingly in the fray,
To smite all foes, and steal the heart
Of all fair maids away!”

MEDEA.  Yea, yea, all these the gods bestowed on him!

CREUSA.  All what?

MEDEA.  These gifts, of which the song doth tell.

CREUSA.  What gifts?

MEDEA.  “To smite all foes, and steal the heart
             Of all fair maids away!”

CREUSA.  Is’t so?  I never thought on that before;
             I did but sing the words I heard him sing.

MEDEA.  ‘Twas so he stood on Colchis’ hostile strand;
             Before his burning glance our warriors cringed,
             And that same glance kindled a fatal fire
             In the soft breast of one unhappy maid;
             She struggled, fled—­until at last those flames,
             So long hid deep within her heart, burst forth,
             And rest and joy and peace to ashes burned
             In one fierce holocaust of smoky flame. 
             ’Twas so he stood, all shining strength and grace,
             A hero, nay, a god—­and drew his victim
             And drew and drew, until the victim came
             To its own doom; and then he flung it down
             Careless, and there was none would take it up.

CREUSA.  Art thou his wife, and speak’st such things of him?